Dark and Stormy
by Philyra
Summary: Emma befriends Storybrooke's handyman and only pub owner. An alternative Season One featuring cursed!Killian.


Disclaimer: I own nothing but the ideas rattling in my head!

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><p>Days after Graham's funeral and that <em>kerfuffle <em>that resulted in electing her sheriff, Emma decided that what she really needed was a drink. A _real_ drink, in a _real_ bar. There was something deeply unsatisfying about knocking back alcohol at the counter in Granny's when there were families sitting in the booths behind her. And she'd learned long ago that nothing good came from drinking alone in one's room.

Leroy slanted a suspicious look at her as she slid onto the stool beside him. "I ain't at my limit yet, sister," he grumbled, one hand curling protectively around his pint glass.

"Relax, Leroy. I'm not on the clock." It occurred to her that as the only police officer in town, she was probably _always _on duty (and wasn't _that _a depressing thought). That particular concern was brushed aside in favor of more important things. "I want to know if there's another bar in Storybrooke."

He snorted, but not unsympathetically. "Need a more discrete place to get sloshed?"

"Something like that."

"You want _The Golden Fleece_. It's down by the docks. You can't miss it."

* * *

><p><em>The Golden Fleece <em>was...not the dive she was expecting. It was tiny, a two-handle kind of bar, built into what looked like the remains of an old fish processing hut just off the docks. The insides were old and banged-up, but sturdy and clean. A long booth covered in warm, cozy velvet ran along the length of one wall, framed by small wood-topped cast iron tables and tiny stools. A small but cheery fire crackled in a tiny iron stove. Emma sniffed the air curiously, trying to identify the woodsy, perfumed scent.

"Peat."

Sheriffs did not jump and squeal. Absolutely not. "What?"

"The fire. It's peat moss. Nothing compares to a turf fire once the weather really turns towards winter," the stranger explained as he ducked behind the bar. He turned to face her fully, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards as he braced his palms on the wooden surface. "But I suspect that's not what you came here for. What can I get you, Sheriff Swan?"

The accent hit her first and it nearly knocked her backwards because it was close, so close to Graham's but not quite there. A little lower, a little smoother, the vowels another color entirely. Even the look of him was similar – dark hair and light eyes situated on a face out of a Brontë novel.

Something must have shown on her face because the bartender nodded briskly. "No need to say a word, love. I think I know exactly what you need."

His movements were smooth and practiced as he filled a highball glass with ice. He sliced two generous slices of lime (no pre-cut slices, she noted with approval) and squeezed one over the glass. Dark rum was followed by ginger beer, the entire thing garnished with the last piece of lime. "Dark and stormy, on the house," he said as he slid it towards her.

"What, for my mood?" It was a good drink though, warm and spicy with just the right amount of heat from the ginger and the rum.

"No, Sheriff." He set the cutting board out of sight. "For your eyes."

She tilted her head, unsure if that was a come-on. There was nothing cheeky or teasing about the way he spoke to her, just straight-up honesty. And that was interesting in and of itself. "I'm not on the clock," she said abruptly. "Call me Emma."

"Nice to meet you, Emma. I'm James Davies and this is my place." He reached over to a rack and began drying some glasses. "So, what's your story, love?"

"Who says I have a story?" she asked dryly. Henry would probably take umbrage to that, and he had a few pages in the book to back him up, but that didn't really count.

James made a noise at the back of his throat – half disapproving, half amused. "Doesn't everyone?"

She rolled her eyes. "Are you really going to play the I'm-a-bartender, talk-to-me schtick? That's pretty cliché."

"I've been told I'm a pretty good listener, bartender or not." He shrugged. "The offer's there if you want it, Emma. Fancy another?"

Emma was startled to see that she'd already drained her glass. "As much as I'd like to, I probably have to start acting responsibly," she remarked, sliding it down the bar towards him. He caught it deftly, and set it into the below-bar sink. "Another time, I think."

"I look forward to it." And as with before, there was no hint of flirtation, just pure honesty. "Stop by whenever you like. And for what it's worth, I think you'll be a good sheriff."

She flashed him a smile, small but genuine, as she left. That small vote of confidence (from a stranger, no less) was…nice. _James _was nice, and that was something she found she desperately wanted right now.

* * *

><p>A week into the job, the heating broke in the sheriff's station with the first snowstorm of the season. Granny promised to send the town handyman over and, much to Emma's surprise, it was James who appeared. "You?" she inquired as he stomped to dislodge the white, powdery mess from his boots.<p>

"Me," James confirmed, blue eyes crinkling merrily around the corners. "The bar is only open at night, so I have to do some other work on the side. You'll find that I'm quite handy."

He waggled his prosthetic hand at Emma as he spoke, and she couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of her throat. "Better prove it, then."

"It's not wise to challenge me, Sheriff." His voice dipped, low and husky, and Emma's breath caught in her throat for a brief moment. But then he was mumbling something about the radiator and moving to the back and just like that the moment was over. Emma dug her knuckles into her breastbone and frowned because she was still grieving over _Graham_ and who was she kidding, anyway? She wasn't cut out for relationships. She could never trust anyone to stay and she couldn't trust herself to just give out that kind of faith.

But he wasn't asking for that, was he? Emma reasoned. Pointed statements and a bedroom voice did not necessarily equal flirtation. It was easy enough to see that charm came as naturally to him as breathing.

Their paths crossed several times after that – at Granny's, fixing some loose floorboards, at Henry's school, replacing ceiling tiles, and even at Regina's, as she stopped in to make her weekly report. "Town handyman and bartender, huh?" she remarked, standing behind him as he fixed a stuck window. "Seems like a pretty busy job."

"Almost as busy as the town sheriff," he tossed over his shoulder with a grin. "What can I do for you, Sheriff?"

He was always conscious to call her by her title when she was on duty. It was a small courtesy, but one she appreciated nonetheless. "Make me another one of those rum drinks when I come by tonight," she decided, fiddling with her gloves.

James slid the window shut, letting out a small grunt of satisfaction as it slid into place with nary a squeak or a catch. He turned, moving easily into her space. "It sounds like a plan," he said softly, tweaking one of the curls that escaped from beneath her hat. They stared at each other for a long, long moment, and Emma fought back the light, fluttering feeling that erupted in her gut. Of all the things, she thought, bewildered, as they trudged back to their respective cars. _Butterflies._

The funny thing about James Davies was that he certainly didn't act the way one would expect. The way he looked, he could get away with flirting left and right. He had the face of the worst kind of bad boy, all dark scruff and beautiful bone structure, but the way he _acted _was another story. Shy, self-effacing, and deferential to the point where it was almost alarming, the way he wordlessly accepted what others told him to do, whether it was in the way that he prepared drinks or performed a helpful task. While that was probably a good quality to have in both a bartender and a town handyman, Emma couldn't help but feel that it was slightly…off. Not in a way that was awful, just…not right.

It was the way Emma felt about Mary Margaret from time to time. Like there was something just below the surface, something that only came to a head every once in a while, but subsided as quickly as it came. She wasn't about to ascribe it to Henry's curse theory, but sometimes she couldn't shake the feeling that everything wasn't as it seemed, though hopefully not in a _Hot Fuzz _kind of way. She could put up with Storybrooke's many quirks, but not if they swung the way of being deathly competitive for a town of the year award or something.

But James…for someone who was so keen to understand and to listen, he was pretty close-mouthed when it came to anything regarding his own past. And Emma got that, she really did, because everyone deserved the right to their own secrets. It was frustrating that he seemed to know her so well, and while she was coming to know him (the way his eyes would always stray to the sea with some deep, unspoken longing), she didn't really _know_ him.

But she kind of wanted to.

* * *

><p>She took one step into Granny's, automatically sidestepping the mistletoe that she <em>knew <em>was hanging over the door – only to find that it had been moved a foot in the opposite direction. Emma scowled and beat a strategic path to the counter, dodging all the newly moved sprigs of green. "Wow, Ruby _really _went all out with the mistletoe," she grumbled.

Granny heaved a sigh. "Tell me about it. But the customers love it – both for the entertainment value and for the opportunity to corner someone to sneak a kiss." She began putting together Emma's hot chocolate.

"I bet you can pick your way through this stuff blindfolded."

"Of course I can. She's my granddaughter. I know how to avoid all of her traps."

The kitchen door swung open and James strode through, wiping his hand on a washcloth. "Freezer is sorted, Gran," he said cheerfully, his grin brightening as he caught sight of Emma at the counter. She waved a hand in greeting as he settled in next to her, pressing his shoulder to hers briefly.

"Good," the older woman said firmly. For him she procured a mug of milky tea and an envelope. He accepted both, tucking the envelope into the pocket of his flannel shirt and taking a deep, appreciative gulp of tea. "I'm going to go and put the steaks back in."

"Has anyone caught you beneath the mistletoe maze?"

James chuckled at her question and shook his head. Emma tried not to let her eyes linger on the way those long, capable fingers cupped his mug, but hey, she was only human. "No. I came in through the back, which Ruby has thankfully left alone. Gran warned me about the rest." He tilted his head curiously. "And what of you, Sheriff? Has anyone tried to catch you yet?"

"I'd like to see them try," she grunted. She'd lock them in the brig.

"Now that's a bloody shame," he commented, eyes holding hers in a way that made her shiver.

"Yeah? Well, you'd better deal with it," she said quickly, laughing it off. They finished off their drinks and paid before picking their way to the front door, poking fun at each other.

"Hey Emma!" Ruby called, pushing through the kitchen doors.

She spun on her heel, knocking slightly against James' side. "What?"

Ruby beamed and pointed up. "Gotcha."

Emma didn't even have to look up – James' amused snort said it all. "One of these days, Ruby," she warned before turning to face him, her expression a study in hilarious resignation.

"In my defense," James began. "I wasn't even trying to catch you."

"Oh, shut up." She leaned up on her toes.

It was chaste and lasted no more than a few seconds, not that Emma expected anything more from a mistletoe kiss in front of Storybrooke's biggest gossipmongers. What she didn't expect was the softness of his lips or the way their mouths fit together. Or how familiar the entire experience was, like they were old hat at it and kissed all the time.

Except they didn't, Emma thought as she sank back onto her heels, her brow furrowing. They were _friends. _And maybe that's why it all felt so…comfortable. James _was _her friend, one of her closest friends, and she wasn't going to screw that up, weird feelings and odd fascinations aside.

James peered down at her, two spots of color high up on his cheeks. "Thoughts, Sheriff?"

She recovered quickly. "It's a mistletoe kiss, James, what do you want from me?" She shoved him towards the door with a glare at Ruby. "Come on, I'm sure you have a chimney to sweep or something."

If he was disappointed by her reaction, he didn't show it. "Of course I do. Someone has to make sure Santa has a clear shot down those chimneys come Christmas, don't you think?"

"Ugh. Just go, will you?" But as he ambled down the street, she raised a hand to her lips and wondered what it would have been like if it were more than just a silly little mistletoe kiss.

* * *

><p>"You don't know who James is? <em>Really<em>?" Henry shot an incredulous look at her from over his Sunday lunch.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Emma, he has one hand." When she continued to look blank, he all but exploded with all the overdramatic flair of a child, slamming his hands down onto the table and leaning forward eagerly. "He's Captain Hook."

Suddenly she had images of Dustin Hoffman dancing in her head. "Captain Hook? As in, long curly black hair and a ridiculous mustache? _That _Captain Hook?"

"You've never read the book, have you? I mean the real book, not my book." Henry went into full-on lecture mode, folding his hands and staring seriously at her. In that moment, he looked so much like Mary Margaret that Emma blinked. "Barrie's Hook was handsome, tragic-"

"-but still a villain."

Henry shook his head emphatically. "Not the real Hook. Not James. He makes some bad choices, but I don't think he's a villain. Read his story and you'll see." He pulled the book from his backpack and handed it to her, extracting a promise that she'd return it as soon as possible.

When he was gone Emma did just that, fingers tracing over the heavy, hand-illustrated pages with care. She read about the young, by-the-book lieutenant who did everything right only to lose his brother. How he chose piracy rather than serve the country that had killed him. She read about the pirate and his unexpected chance at love – and wasn't that weird, to see that he'd loved Rumplestiltskin's wife?

It was with conflicting feelings that she finally shut the book, pondering the tragic downward spiral that resulted in Milah's death and Captain Hook's escape to Neverland. That had been Hook's last appearance in the tale. She could see now why Henry was reluctant to call Hook a villain. Bad things, yes – but she wasn't one to point fingers, not with all of the things that she'd done in her life.

Emma slid down in the booth and pressed her fingers to her eyes. Was she really entertaining the idea that James was Captain Hook, just because she wanted to know a little bit more about him? Sure, she could see shades of James in Lieutenant Killian Jones in his work ethic – and hell, she could even see him in the pirate captain because of the way that he cared, but everything else? She thought back to that second journey to Neverland and how the illustration captured the depth of his emotions. That wild rage and grief seemed to leap out of the page, reflected in bright blue eyes that did have more than a passing resemblance…no.

Why was she even bothering? Storybrooke was always going to be a temporary thing. Sure, the sheriff thing had thrown a spanner in the works, but she still couldn't see herself living out the rest of her days in a sleepy little fishing village, regardless of the people that lived here.

Still, the thought of leaving Henry, Mary Margaret, and yes, even James, left her feeling a bit cold and a little empty. And while those feelings were nothing new _chez _Emma Swan, she couldn't shake the looming certainty that it would be worse after knowing these people.

Her phone buzzed across the table and she snatched it up gratefully. Oh yes, she definitely needed the distraction.

* * *

><p>Unfortunately, all she had from there on out were distractions. Between the David and Mary Margaret show, Regina's shenanigans, and the appearance of one August Booth, she was lucky to do more than wave at James in passing, or make it down to <em>The Golden Fleece <em>(and wasn't that a kicker, in light of Henry's book?) more than once a week.

Once, she brought August with her and she could have sworn that she saw something like jealousy glimmer in James' eyes, but then he was his usual understated self and she was only left to wonder. If he really was jealous, why did he never say or do anything?

No, she wasn't going to go down that road. That way was madness and she really, really did not have time for that. If James wanted something – anything, whether it was more of her time or maybe just more of her, then he was going to have to make the move himself.

He never did make that move, and Emma tried not to be disappointed, tried not to think of long conversations by a crackling peat fire, or cheerful, casual run-ins in the middle of town. Or of a sweet little kiss that could have turned to something much, much more…

She was the sheriff, and she had a weird little town to wrangle.

* * *

><p>The curse broke and once Emma reassured herself Henry was actually all right and <em>alive<em>, she took to the streets of town to make sure that everything was still in one piece. She wasn't going to deny that she was looking for Mary Margaret to confirm for herself that she was-

"Swan!"

Her eyes widened. James – no, not James, _Hook. _There was nothing of James in that straight, long-legged stride or the confident set of his shoulders. But as he drew near, she realized that the bright intensity of that gaze was absolutely familiar – she'd seen it staring out at her from the pages of Henry's book. And that was enough to make her lose her composure because while this was something different from their wretched little stalemate, she hadn't wanted to lose James because he was one of the few friends she had. "James?" she managed, her voice small.

And just like in that first moment, he must have read her like an open book, because something about that man just…_softened _as he drew to a halt in front of her. "Aye, James is still here," and oh, where had that voice come from, salt-roughened and dark as the rum that he favored? "But I'd prefer it if you called me Killian."

_Killian Jones_. Captain Hook. Emma swallowed, trying to work moisture back into a throat that had gone desert dry. "I can try."

He rocked back on his heels, tension that she hadn't even noticed leaking out of him bit by bit. "That's all I ask, love. Listen, I know that everything is about to change and it will become a madhouse around here, but-"

"But?"

"But James had-_has _feelings for you. As do I. And whilst James was unwilling to fight for them – fight for _you – _I can assure you that I am in it for the long haul." He looked into her eyes searchingly, begging her to believe him.

She opened and closed her mouth, completely flabbergasted. It was the type of thing she'd wanted to hear from James, and here it was, but it wasn't James? Life had become far too confusing. "But I thought we were friends," she blurted inanely.

James-_Killian _nodded solemnly and took a step forward. "We _are_ friends, love. And we can continue to be friends, if that is what you wish. But I want you to know, Emma-" And oh, the way he said her name, like she was something precious, made something bright and hopeful flare to life inside of her. "That I am the friend who wants all of you. Who wants to be worthy of you and will do anything to prove it."

It was like having double vision because suddenly she could see the two of them with absolute clarity – James, with his quiet steadiness, and Killian, with his passion and determination. And…she liked what she saw and wondered at all of the possibilities that awaited.

She spied a familiar coat out of the corner of her eye and before she lost her nerve, she moved in, yanking at the collar of his waxed jacket to press her lips to his. It was quick, but full of promise, and it rocked her to her toes. Emma stepped back, eyes flickering open as he took a half step forward, trying to chase her lips with his. "I look forward to it. And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to find my parents."

Emma couldn't help but smile as he fell into step beside her as she strode briskly up the street towards Granny's. It looked like the start of a big adventure.

She couldn't wait.

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><p><strong>Please review!<strong>

This is my Captain Swan Secret Santa gift for InitialA, who asked for cursed bartender!Killian. It plays a little fast and loose with S1, but not too much. And because I couldn't resist, I took much inspiration from a barrage of festive Hallmark movies.

Killian is James - for J. M. Barrie and the real Captain Hook (as was pointed out to me).


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